


Long Days and Sleepless Nights

by enigmaticblue



Series: A Series of Unfortunate Events [7]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 17:49:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmaticblue/pseuds/enigmaticblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All the Avengers have trouble sleeping sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Long Days and Sleepless Nights

**1.**

 

Thor stands out on the roof, letting the night breeze tangle his hair. It’s his second night in the Tower, and probably his last for a while.

 

He’s enjoyed his time with the others, but he misses his home, even if he’s not quite sure where that is—whether it’s on Asgard, or with Jane, or somewhere else entirely.

 

“Thor?” Banner calls as he steps out onto the roof, a mug of tea in one hand. “You okay?”

 

“I couldn’t sleep,” Thor replies. He doesn’t say that the bed is too soft, or too empty, or too _something_ , because it seems that Bruce is living here as well, which means that he is, technically, one of Thor’s hosts. He will not insult his host by suggesting that his surroundings have anything to do with his inability to sleep. “Your bed is most comfortable.”

 

Banner chuckles. “If it’s not, I wouldn’t be offended.”

 

Thor smiles. “It is not your hospitality that is causing my restlessness.”

 

“I know how it is to sleep in a strange place,” Banner says gently. “And sometimes you can’t.”

 

Thor relaxes slightly, appreciating Banner’s quiet good humor, and his understanding. “I am not sure I made the right decision by returning to Midgard,” he confesses.

 

Banner wraps both hands around his mug. “Then why did you come back?”

 

He sounds honestly curious, and Thor considers the question before answering. “I am not prepared to take the throne now. As king of Asgard, I would be hampered in my ability to protect the Nine Realms, including Midgard.” He hesitates, and then adds, “Half my heart is here.”

 

A smile touches Banner’s lips. “I’ve never met Dr. Foster, but I’ve read some of her work. She has an impressive mind.”

 

Thor understands that Banner is offering a high compliment. “I believe she does, yes.”

 

“Sometimes I find it helps to watch a movie,” Bruce offers. “It gives me a chance to get out of my own head for a while.”

 

Thor has watched a few movies with Jane, mostly at Darcy’s insistence, but he suspects Darcy’s selections are quite different than what Bruce might choose. Darcy likes what she calls “cult classics.”

 

He’s still not sure what that means. Thor had looked up the word, but “cult” seems a negative term, and yet Darcy had been very enthusiastic about the films.

 

But Thor is tired, and he would like to sleep. He’s tired of his self-doubts and recriminations, which seem to drown out all other thoughts. Perhaps, as Banner says, he needs to “get out of his own head.”

 

“Do you have a suggestion?” Thor asks.

 

Banner smiles sheepishly. “When all else fails, I watch nature documentaries.”

 

An hour later, Thor knows quite a bit more about grizzly bears, and his eyelids have gown heavy, the soothing voice of the narrator lulling him into a half-doze. Banner is asleep on the other end of the couch, slumped half over the arm, and Stark wanders in.

 

Thor rouses himself slightly, seeing the fond look that Stark gives Banner. “Is this the one on grizzly bears?” he asks. “Works every time.”

 

“I should go to bed,” Thor replies. “Can I be of assistance?”

 

“Nah, I got it,” Stark replies. When Thor rises, Stark sprawls out, tugging at Banner until he’s stretched out, too, his head pillowed on Stark’s chest. “Good night, Thor.”

 

“Sleep well,” Thor replies, and goes off to find his bed.

 

He’ll have to keep the nature documentaries in mind. They are indeed soothing.

 

**2.**

 

On nights when Steve can’t sleep, he will often greet the dawn as he runs for miles, weather permitting. When the weather is terrible, though, he goes to the Tower to put in some time at the gym.

 

His old gym had been closed a few months before due to lack of funds, and he’d grown used to Stark’s onsite gym while recovering at the Tower. Tony seems to have an infinite number of punching bags, plus a bunch of other equipment. Sometimes, one of the other Avengers is there, like Thor, Natasha, or Clint, and Steve can spar with a real person. They might not always be evenly matched, but Steve knows what they can do, and what they can take in a way he doesn’t with anyone else.

 

This morning, Clint is working with the free weights, doing some bicep curls. Bruce is there, too, sitting on a mat in the corner of the room, his legs crossed, and his hands resting on his knees.

 

“You’re up early, Cap,” Clint calls cheerfully as Steve enters the gym.

 

Steve glances over at Bruce, not wanting to disturb him. “I was awake,” he replies when he approaches.

 

“Don’t mind the doc,” Clint says, apparently reading Steve’s mind. “Once he’s in the zone, it would take a bomb going off to throw him.”

 

“Let’s try to avoid that,” Steve replies dryly. “Do you want a spotter?”

 

“That would be great.”

 

Steve doesn’t need a spotter—and if he did, only Thor might be strong enough to do him any good—so it’s more for Clint’s benefit than his own. After a couple of circuits, they hit the boxing ring.

 

While Steve might be taller and stronger than Clint, Clint’s speed and sneakiness work in his favor, and he gives Steve a run for his money. They slow their sparring so Clint can demonstrate a few dirty tricks, and Steve notices that Bruce has apparently finished his meditation, because he’s watching them with a half-smile on his face.

 

“You guys hungry?” Bruce asks. “I can make protein shakes.”

 

“Don’t put yourself out,” Clint replies, wiping the sweat off his face with a towel.

 

Bruce hitches a shoulder. “I’m making one for myself. It’s just as easy to make enough for three.”

 

Steve doesn’t ask why Bruce is up so early; he suspects that Bruce’s reasons are similar to his own.  Memories sometimes press in too hard, filling his head with too many thoughts to sleep.

 

There are nights when regret and loneliness make it hard for him to draw in a breath, but coming here and finding warmth and companionship loosens the knot.

 

He hopes their presence helps Bruce, too.

 

“I have to be at SHIELD soon,” Steve replies. “But I have time for breakfast.”

 

**3.**

 

Natasha has heard all the rumors floating around SHIELD about her at one point or another, and most have some small grain of truth to them. She _has_ taken on twenty enemy soldiers at a time and won—although, the truth is that there had been _forty_ agents, and an explosion had been involved. The Red Room had recruited her at a very early age, but she hadn’t been genetically engineered to be a spy. She remembers her mother and father, and she certainly hadn’t been grown in a vat.

 

But it’s entirely true that she doesn’t sleep, at least not in the commonly understood meaning of the word.

 

Sometimes, when she’s with someone she trusts, she will do more than catnap, but those people are a rarity in her world. And, somewhat ironically, she’s not often with them.

 

“All quiet on the Western front,” Clint says.

 

Natasha maintains a semi-bored expression on her face as she works the room. She needs to get upstairs if she’s to plant Stark’s bug in Glazov’s computer, but she’s still baiting the hook.

 

“Are you still doing the bored heiress thing?” Clint asks, even though he really ought to know better than to distract her with idle chatter. “Maybe you should switch it up, try the flirty debutante.”

 

Natasha makes a mental note to remind Clint of the definition of a debutante—as well as a sharp reminder not to distract her.

 

She catches sight of Steve on the other side of the room. He’s there in his official capacity as Captain America, to serve as a distraction, a stalking horse of sorts. Glazov knows that SHIELD is interested in him, and in what he’s been selling to various terrorist organizations. He expects them to send _someone_ ; it might as well be someone obvious.

 

Natasha catches sight of Grazov’s son, Vasily, whom intelligence suggests is following in his father’s footsteps. He’s young—no more than twenty-four—and seems just as bored as Natasha is pretending to be.

 

She watches as he spots her from across the room, and the bored expression disappears, and she smiles slightly.

 

The hook is set.

 

Vasily crosses the room, looking purposeful, stopping just in front of her. “Can I get you a drink?” he asks in heavily accented English.

 

“You may,” Natasha replies in Russian.

 

Vasily’s eyes light up. “Ah, you are Russian? How is it that I have never seen you at one of my father’s parties?”

 

“I’ve been in America for school,” Natasha replies. “I am Natasha Rostova.” When his eyebrows go up, she adds, “My father loved Tolstoy.”

 

She can smell the alcohol on him and knows that he’s already quite drunk, which makes him the perfect mark. “It sounds as though your father had high hopes for you,” Vasily replies.

 

Natasha places a hand on his arm. “As I’m sure your father does for you. Something we have in common, yes?”

 

“Perhaps we should find out what else we have in common,” Vasily replies with a leer.

 

It’s the work of about fifteen minutes to convince him they need privacy for their conversation, and a couple of nudges in the right direction mean they wind up in Glazov’s office, which is sleek and modern in comparison to the rest of the house.

 

Natasha is very good at giving a man only what she wants to give him and ensuring he thinks it’s his idea. She allows him to kiss her, to bury his face in her chest, her breasts distracting him enough so that she can place the bug on the side of the computer. Tony had assured her that’s all she’d need to do.

 

“No, no,” she purrs when Vasily pushes aside the strap on her dress. “Not on our first meeting! What will you think of me?”

 

Vasily groans. “But you are the best part of this evening!”

 

“And I would be the best part of anyone’s evening,” Natasha replies. “But think how much better it will be if sweetened by anticipation.”

 

Clint snorts in her ear. “Let me guess, he’s pawing at you.”

 

Natasha can’t reply, but Clint is correct. Vasily stinks, and his hands are rough. She’s counting down the seconds until she can excuse herself.

 

“Vasily, you idiot!” Glazov shouts from the doorway. “What have I told you about bringing strangers to my office?”

 

Vasily is clearly too drunk to realize just how angry his father is. “This is Natasha Rostova, father,” he replies. “She is a friend.”

 

“Keep them busy,” Clint says. “I can be on that side of the building in two minutes.”

 

“She is not one of us!” Glazov shouts, his face red with rage, his salt and pepper mustache bristling. “How dare you!”

 

Natasha straightens, smoothing her dress. “You must forgive me for the intrusion,” she says. “I had no idea this was your office, Mr. Glazov.”

 

He glares at her with narrowed eyes. “I do not know you.”

 

“You were very good friends with my father,” she replies. “Anatol Milosz.”

 

Glazov is still looking at her suspiciously. “I know a Milosz.”

 

Natasha smiles. “You did not know my mother, but my father could not pass up the opportunity to name me after one of his favorite Tolstoy characters.”

 

At that, Glazov chuckles. “Anatol did love Tolstoy. Forgive me for shouting, my dear, but breaches in security are a very serious thing.”

 

“Of course,” Natasha replies. “If I had known it was your office, I would have insisted on finding another room.” She taps Vasily on the chest. “Call me,” she says and walks out, swinging her hips a little more than is strictly necessary.

 

She’s not surprised when no one calls her back, even though Vasily doesn’t _have_ her number. A pretty face and a pleasing figure have distracted many a person in the past.

 

“Well done,” Clint says. “Now, get out of there. Steve’s already made his excuses, and he’s got a substantial tail.”

 

“I’ll be fine,” Steve insists. “They’re just watching right now.”

 

Natasha retrieves her wrap and waits until she’s outside before saying, “At least _try_ to shake them. They’ll get suspicious if you don’t.”

 

“Already on it,” Steve replies, sounding a little breathless. “See you back at HQ.”

 

A private limousine pulls up in front of Glazov’s house, and Natasha climbs in. “How was your evening, Ms. Rostova?” the driver, a SHIELD asset, asks.

 

“Enjoyable and profitable,” Natasha replies.

 

“The perfect evening,” he replies. “I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that we’re not being followed.”

 

Steve’s breathless voice comes through the coms. “And I’m back at the hotel. I lost some of them, but I picked up another in the lobby.”

 

“Let him follow you to the airport tomorrow,” Natasha instructs. “The SHIELD team will ensure your safety.”

 

Steve laughs. “I think I can take these guys.”

 

“Never hurts to have backup,” Clint replies. “See you back in New York, Cap.”

 

Natasha and Clint are spending the night in a SHIELD safe house located outside St. Petersburg, while Steve stays at one of the hotels in town as bait. The bug won’t start gathering information until they’re out of the country.

 

That means she has an evening to spend with Clint before they fly out the next day.

 

Natasha changes into her tactical gear as soon as she gets to the safe house, a small cabin comprised of a single room and a bathroom, and settles in to wait for Clint, who arrives about fifteen minutes later. He strips off his wrist guards and his vest and says, “You want to take first watch, or should I?”

 

“Will you sleep?” Natasha asks with an arch look.

 

“Probably not,” Clint replies. “But you should try.”

 

Clint is one of the few people Natasha trusts to keep watch, and she’s tired, feeling relaxed from the successful mission and the company.

 

“I think I will,” she replies, and stretches out on the thin mattress, curling up under heavy blankets. She can hear the wind howling outside, and Clint perches near the front door, humming tunelessly, and that’s how she goes to sleep.

 

**4.**

 

Tony wakes with a gasp, his ears ringing. Pepper is traveling, and Bruce is apparently up already, because he’s alone. His tank top is sticking to his skin, and his heart is racing, his chest aching.

 

“Jarvis, what time is it?” Tony asks hoarsely.

 

“It’s 4:22 am, sir,” Jarvis replies.

 

“And Bruce?”

 

“Dr. Banner rose approximately half an hour ago. I believe he is in his lab. Would you like me to notify him that you are awake?” Jarvis asks.

 

Tony strips off his tank top. “No, don’t bother him. I’m going to take a shower.”

 

The hot water sluices off the sweat and helps release some of the tension in his neck and shoulders. Tony gives some consideration to staying in the shower forever, and just never facing the world again—it can do without him.

 

He’s pretty sure the hot water tank would stand up to the treatment.

 

Tony has no idea how long he’s in there when he feels movement behind him, and he half-turns to see Bruce slipping into the shower.

 

“Jarvis, you traitor!” Tony calls.

 

“I asked him to let me know when you were up,” Bruce replies, his lips brushing Tony’s ear. “Nightmare?”

 

Tony pretends not to hear the question, because he doesn’t want to explain. “What were you doing up?”

 

Bruce’s strong hands knead the tight muscles in his back. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you not answering the question.”

 

“Ditto,” Tony replies. “And I didn’t hear the question.”

 

He feels, more than hears, Bruce’s laughter. “Nice try. You know me. I never sleep much.”

 

“Same old,” Tony replies, leaning his head against the tiles.

 

If Bruce replies, Tony doesn’t hear him, and he focuses on just feeling Bruce’s hands, and his lips.

 

As a distraction, it works admirably, and he’s loose and pliant by the time they get out of the shower.

 

Tony turns and pulls Bruce to him, sucking at Bruce’s neck.

 

“Let’s not announce our activities to the world,” Bruce rumbles, guiding Tony’s mouth a little lower, his hand gripping Tony’s hair. “I’m right here.”

 

“You heal fast,” Tony mutters against Bruce’s skin, but he obligingly moves on to Bruce’s collarbone.

 

Bruce hums, and Tony can feel the vibration in his chest. “You’re turning into a prune.”

 

“I don’t care,” Tony replies.

 

“Come on,” Bruce says. “I think I can figure out a way to give you another couple of hours of sleep.”

 

“Only if you join me.”

 

“We’ll see,” Bruce replies.

 

Bruce is as good as his word. He sucks Tony off with the sort of attention to detail that Tony really appreciates. Pepper’s mentioned more than once that bringing a genius to bed—particularly a genius invested in pleasing his partner—had been a particularly good idea.

 

Tony hadn’t known whether to be pleased, since inviting Bruce to join them had been mostly his idea, or hurt that he’s not included in that assessment.

 

Of course, then Pepper had said, “Your bedroom skills were never in question.”

 

“Practice does make perfect,” Bruce agreed, having been a party to this discussion, wearing an amused smile the entire time.

 

“I’ll reciprocate,” Tony says now as Bruce wipes his mouth, although he feels boneless and as though he might be able to sleep again.

 

Bruce smiles fondly. “When you wake up again.”

 

“Stay,” Tony murmurs. “Please.”

 

Bruce stretches out next to him. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up.”

 

“No big deal,” Tony murmurs, sleep tugging him. “You made up for it.”

 

Bruce presses his lips against Tony’s bare shoulder. “Good. That’s what I’m here for.”

 

And then Tony’s out.

 

**5.**

 

Clint isn’t sure he’s ever been more uncomfortable in his life. He’s never liked wearing suits, but he’s _really_ not fond of tuxes, and the occasion makes it worse.

 

It’s a benefit dinner for the NYPD and FDNY and the first responders who had lost their lives in the Battle of Manhattan.

 

Clint doesn’t have a problem with honoring the fallen, far from it. He just feels as though he’s responsible for their deaths. If he hadn’t been brainwashed by Loki—if he hadn’t _let_ himself be brainwashed—they wouldn’t be dead right now. Loki wouldn’t have been able to open the door for the Chitauri army.

 

Clint had tried to get out of it by pointing out that nobody wanted him there, and Fury had just given him one of his patented glares and countered that Clint was an Avenger, so he was going. _All_ of the Avengers were going.

 

Clint knows better than to defy an order like that, so here he is in a monkey suit, feeling like an asshole.

 

“I never know what to do at these things.”

 

Clint startles, mostly because he hadn’t expected anybody to talk to him. He’s just glad it’s not Natasha, because she’d never let him live it down. Bruce is nice enough not to say anything.

 

“Why aren’t you hanging out with Tony and Pepper?” Clint asks, spotting them on the other side of the room, talking to a couple of men in suits.

 

Bruce shrugs. “We’re not exactly out, you know.”

 

“Everybody knows you guys are close,” Clint replies.

 

Bruce smiles at him. “ _We’re_ close, and you looked pretty miserable. I thought you might like company.”

 

“I don’t belong here.” Clint looks out at the glittering sea of people, all dressed to the nines, most of whom make more in a year than he’ll make in a lifetime.

 

Steve is in his Army uniform—a present-day version—talking to Fury and Natasha, as well as the police commissioner.  Thor is holding court in his Asgardian armor, looking a little amused at the gaggle of women surrounding him. Maybe as a prince, he’s used to that sort of thing.

 

Nobody else on the team seems to feel lost here; everybody else seems to belong in the limelight. They’re the real heroes, whereas Clint is just a guy who’s good with a bow.

 

He’s probably never going to get over feeling at least partly responsible for what Loki had done, and he’s never going to feel comfortable with all the attention he gets being part of the Avengers.

 

But when Bruce puts an arm around his shoulders, Clint thinks there might be a few things that make up for it.

 

“We’ll get a drink,” Bruce says, steering him toward the bar. “Chances are, no one’s going to come close to you with me around—unless, of course, you mind that sort of thing.”

 

Clint glances around and realizes that Bruce is right. Either people look their way, and their eyes slide right past them without any hint of recognition—not surprising, given that Bruce’s alter ego is the one to make the papers, and Clint tries to stay out of sight—or they _definitely_ recognize them and look quickly away. As they move through the crowd, people seem to move out of the way—actually, they kind of scurry out of the way.

 

His own discomfort fades into ire on Bruce’s behalf. “What the fuck?” he demands, leaning in close to Bruce’s ear. “You took out half the Chitauri! You smashed Loki!”

 

A hint of a smile tilts Bruce’s lips. “I think that’s kind of the problem, Clint.”

 

“It’s stupid,” he insists.

 

Bruce’s smile grows a little warmer. “It’s nice that you think that, but they have reason to be afraid.”

 

“I _like_ the Hulk,” Clint insists.

 

Bruce looks fond. “You and Tony. For the record, you’re both insane.”

 

“Probably,” Clint agrees, although he feels a twinge.

 

“That was a stupid thing to say,” Bruce says immediately. “Sorry. I’m not really at my best.”

 

Clint shakes his head. “Doc, it’s fine. If you ask me, we’re all a little crazy. We’d have to be to do this job.”

 

“Still.”

 

“I figure any time I get lumped together with Stark, I should take it as a compliment,” Clint says immediately. He likes Bruce, too, right along with his greener half. “And in this case, he had you figured out a lot sooner than anybody else.”

 

Bruce steers them to the bar. “Beer okay?”

 

Clint nods. “Yeah, definitely.”

 

There’s a pocket of space around them, which should have been a relief but now that he knows what’s causing it, Clint just feels bad for Bruce. “You doing okay, doc?”

 

“I should ask you that,” Bruce replies. “Although you’re looking a lot better these days.”

 

Clint shrugs. “Yeah, I would have to be. I don’t know that I ever thanked you for that.”

 

“I’d like to keep my friends in one piece,” Bruce replies with a wry twist to his mouth. “No matter how difficult that may be at times. But are you?”

 

“You first,” Clint counters stubbornly.

 

Bruce hitches a shoulder. “I’m okay. Some days, I’m even good. Your turn.”

 

Clint hesitates, not wanting to worry Bruce. He knows Natasha has some idea that he hasn’t been sleeping, and he could probably go to the shrinks at SHIELD and get something for it, but he hasn’t been off his meds all that long now, and being out in the field again helps him.

 

“Let me guess,” Bruce suggests. “Are you not sleeping?”

 

“Do I look tired?” Clint asks.

 

Bruce shakes his head. “I don’t think it would be noticeable except to someone who knows you, and—well. I know something about nightmares, and not being yourself.”

 

Clint winces, because that’s a little _too_ on the nose, although it doesn’t bother him that Bruce knows. “Being back out in the field is worth it.”

 

“You can always call me,” Bruce offers. “I don’t sleep much, so I’ll probably be up.”

 

Clint doesn’t have a lot of people in his life he’d trust to make that offer and mean it, especially not these days. Natasha is one of them, although Clint probably wouldn’t take advantage of that fact. Coulson had been another, but he’s got his own team, and his own problems now, and Clint hates adding to them.

 

He might call Bruce, though.

 

“You do realize that this is doing nothing to detract from your reputation as the team mom, right?” Clint asks, because he _has_ to crack a joke.

 

Bruce gives him a mock-horrified look. “Please think about what I do with Tony and Pepper, and then rephrase that.”

 

Clint laughs, and the tension breaks. “Please, you and Pepper double team Stark. I’ve seen you do it.”

 

“Did I hear my name?” Tony appears suddenly, which probably isn’t surprising since they’re still leaning on the bar.

 

Pepper rolls her eyes. “Bruce and Clint are allowed to talk about you.”

 

“True,” Tony agrees. “But I still want to know what they were saying.”

 

Bruce smiles, an evil glint in his eyes. “Tough.”

 

Clint spots Tony’s hearing aids, and sees the hint of strain on his face. From what he understands, Tony does okay on a day-to-day basis, but put him in the middle of this much background noise, and he has some trouble.

 

“I was just saying that Bruce is living up to his reputation as team manager,” Clint replies.

 

Bruce still gives him a dirty look, even with the change in nouns.

 

“Well, he _is_ fairly sneaky about it,” Tony agrees with a wicked grin. “But I can think of a few things he manages _very_ well.”

 

Bruce blushes at that. “Seriously, knock it off. Both of you.”

 

“Come on,” Pepper says, tucking her hand through Bruce’s arm. “Bruce, there’s someone you should meet. Tony?”

 

“Got him,” Tony replies, and slings an arm over Clint’s shoulders. “Come on. You two can’t be miserable all night. We’ll go play wingmen for Steve. I’d like to make sure he doesn’t die a virgin. That would be a crime.”

 

Clint’s a little surprised that Tony and Pepper had noticed, although maybe he shouldn’t be. They’re both used to crowds like this, and have some experience reading them.

 

“What about Bruce?” Clint asks.

 

Tony’s smile is a little wistful. “Pepper will take care of him. No one can resist her for long. Besides, if Steve strikes out here, you should come back to the Tower. I think I’ve finally come up with a concoction that will get Steve drunk.”

 

Maybe it’s not a good idea, but Clint likes the sound of that, because it would probably knock _him_ on his ass. “Mind if I try it?”

 

“Not at all,” Tony replies expansively. “It’s all in the name of science, right? We’ll have our own private party afterward.”

 

And Clint realizes that for all his facility, Tony’s probably just as miserable as the rest of them. After all, this occasion is just another reminder of the lives he couldn’t save, and Clint’s spent enough time in his company over the last year to know how heavily that weighs on him.

 

“That sounds good,” Clint says.

 

Maybe with enough alcohol in him, and surrounded by friends, Clint will sleep tonight.

 

**6.**

 

Bruce got out of the habit of sleeping a long time ago. He doesn’t need it as much after the Other Guy, and about the only time he really _needs_ to sleep is right after a transformation. Of course, that’s also the time he’s least likely to be _able_ to sleep.

 

Tonight, Tony and the others are sleeping off the alcohol Tony had concocted in order to get Steve drunk.

 

He smiles reflexively. Much to Steve’s surprise, it had worked, and it had given all of them a chance to blow off steam away from prying eyes, with just the team. Even Thor had flown in for the occasion.

 

Pepper and Tony are still asleep when Bruce rolls out of bed, for which Bruce is grateful, mostly because it means someone will be with Tony if he wakes from one of his nightmares.

 

On another night, if he was feeling less restless, he might pick up a book and read, tucked away in the corner of their bedroom set up for just that purpose. But he can’t sit still right now, and he knows the best way to soothe the savage beast is to lose himself in work.

 

Thor had gone home, but Steve is reclining in the chair where he’d passed out, snoring slightly, and Clint and Natasha have their heads pillowed on opposite ends of the couch, their legs tangled together.

 

Bruce is glad to see that Clint is sleeping, especially since he knows going off the psychiatric meds had done a number on him, and he knows one of the side effects is insomnia.

 

He fills a few glasses of water and sets them down within the others’ reach, and sets a bottle of aspirin on the table, too.

 

His lab, with its gleaming equipment and data boards, welcomes him. Work, as always, offers an escape and a distraction. Bruce puts a pot of coffee on and pulls up his latest project, an attempt to build a force field that will hold the Other Guy.

 

Bruce is still going over the equations when Tony wanders in with a cup of coffee in hand. “You know, I didn’t think anybody actually slept less than I do.”

 

“I warned you,” Bruce replies defensively, hearing the heat in his own voice.

 

“Okay,” Tony says, holding up a hand. “You warned me. No judgment here.”

 

Bruce sighs. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

 

“If I slept as little as you do, I’d be cranky, too,” Tony says. “Just do me a favor—tell me if you’re not okay.”

 

Bruce manages a smile. “I’m okay, Tony. This is nothing new for me, I promise.”

 

Tony perches on a stool. “Is there ever a time when you _do_ sleep?”

 

He shrugs. “Right after a transformation, I could sleep for a week, but I never get the chance. Why?”

 

“No reason,” Tony says, but he has that light in his eye that Bruce knows so well—Tony’s planning something.

 

Bruce also knows better than to push before Tony’s ready to spill.

 

“What are you working on?” Tony asks, clearly changing the subject.

 

“Force field,” Bruce explains briefly. “I’m having some trouble figuring out how to keep the power output steady with pressure from the inside.”

 

“Let’s see what you’ve got,” Tony replies.

 

~~~~~

 

It’s not until a few weeks later that Bruce gets some inkling of what Tony’s been planning.

 

Bruce is on the other side of a very long stretch of time without sleeping when the Avengers get a call to assemble from Fury, and this time they need the Other Guy. He’s dreading it, because he’s tired enough already, and transformations always take a lot out of him.

 

He’ll be dragging for days after this, aching from head to toe, but Bruce knows SHIELD only asks for the Other Guy when he’s really needed. Maybe they’re using him as a weapon, but at least it’s for the protection of the planet, and not to win territory or oil rights. He could think of worse uses for the Other Guy.

 

The Quinjet sets down near the Bay area in San Francisco, and Bruce wonders why evil scientists and alien invaders always went for populated areas. Why not hit the middle of nowhere, where there wouldn’t be as many potential witnesses?

 

If Bruce were inclined to take over the world—which he’s not—that’s where he’d start.

 

This time, the problem is a bunch of purple-skinned aliens driving some kind of battle bots that can take out entire buildings with one beam of energy. It’s no wonder they’re calling in the Other Guy, and as tired and irritable as Bruce is, he doesn’t have any problem transforming.

 

One second he’s there, and the next he’s not, the world around him too bright, too sharp, too noisy.

 

Bruce sometimes wishes he didn’t feel anything at all when the Other Guy takes over, but even when he chooses to transform, it’s still too much.

 

When he comes back to himself, he’s lying on a padded bench on the Quinjet, something soft under his head. He groans, and someone presses a bottle of water into his hand. “Drink that, then you can eat something.”

 

Bruce’s eyes feel gummy, but he manages to focus on Clint, who’s sprawled on the floor next to him. “Everybody okay?” he asks after he downs half the water.

 

“They’re just finishing the cleanup,” Clint replies cheerfully. “Nothing for you to worry about, doc. Eat that.” He replaces the water with an energy bar.

 

Bruce is hungry enough to follow orders, and tired enough not to do anything more than chew and swallow mechanically.

 

“Why don’t you catch some shuteye until we have to leave?” Clint suggests. “I’ll wake you up if we need you.”

 

There’s something off about the suggestion, something Bruce isn’t seeing, but _God_ , he’s so _fucking_ tired, especially with something in his stomach.

 

“I’ll keep watch,” Clint offers. “I’ll be right here until the others get back.”

 

The thing is, Bruce trusts Clint will do what he says, if only because Bruce has watched his back in the past—although it’s more than that. They’re friends, of course they are, and friends do things like this.

 

Bruce remembers that much, anyway.

 

“Yeah, thanks,” Bruce mutters, and then he’s gone.

 

The next time he wakes up, he’s in the bed he shares with Tony and Pepper. Someone has stripped off the remains of his clothing and cleaned him up besides, and the room is dim and quiet.

 

Bruce blinks up at the ceiling, feeling strangely lazy and content, although his stomach growls at him demandingly.

 

He feels—well rested. It’s such a novel sensation, he’s not sure what to do with it.

 

“How are you?”

 

Bruce rolls his head to look at Tony. “How long have I been out?”

 

Tony holds out a bottle of water. “Since we got you back here? About twelve hours. Since the battle? More like sixteen, maybe a little more.”

 

Bruce struggles to a seated position and takes the bottle. “How’d I get up here?”

 

“Thor carried you,” Tony says with a smirk. “Like a princess.”

 

Bruce rolls his eyes. “Fuck you.”

 

Tony just grins. “Maybe you can do that later. I brought a sandwich, too, if you’re hungry.”

 

“Yeah, sounds good,” Bruce replies and begins to eat the sandwich Tony offers, completely ravenous.

 

As the food hits his stomach, something occurs to him. “You set this up.”

 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Tony replies, far too smugly for that to be true.

 

Bruce glares at him. “Tony, I haven’t slept more than a couple of hours at a stretch in _years_.”

 

Tony suddenly looks uncertain. “You said you could sleep after a transformation, but never got a chance to. I thought if you felt safe, you could. Clint stayed when you until we were done, and Pepper stayed until after we got done with the debriefing. Someone from the team has been here the whole time.”

 

Bruce stares at him and has to swallow hard. “Oh.”

 

“Yeah, oh,” Tony replies, the uncertainty replaced by exasperation. “You look out for the rest of us _all the time_ , Bruce. You think we don’t all know how little you sleep on a _good_ day? If we can help, that’s what we’re going to do.”

 

Bruce takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. It’s been a long time since he’d been able to rely on anybody, and while he likes taking care of people—because he _needs_ that as much as he needs to breathe—it’s nice to have the favor returned.

 

“Okay,” Bruce agrees. “Thanks. I don’t—I honestly don’t remember the last time I slept that well or that long.”

 

“Think you could sleep a little longer?” Tony asks, taking Bruce’s empty plate.

 

Bruce lies back on the bed and feels a deep languor.  “Join me?”

 

“I think that can be arranged,” Tony replies, setting the plate on the floor. “Jarvis? Let Pepper know that Bruce is awake, okay?”

 

“Already done, sir,” Jarvis replies. “She asks that you wait to get started until she arrives.”

 

Bruce smiles and hauls Tony close. “Tell her we’re napping right now, and she’s welcome to join us,” he says, pressing his face into the side of Tony’s neck, and he just lets himself drift.


End file.
